


A Final Madness

by theoldgods



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Azor Ahai, Fire, Gen, Post - A Dance With Dragons, Prophetic Visions, Stannis FicArt Week, Warging, Wargs, direwolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 19:47:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1022688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fleeing Castle Black with Shireen in the wake of disaster, with one Azor Ahai candidate locked in Winterfell and another in the form of a wolf, Melisandre gets one last, crucial vision in the flames from R'hllor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Final Madness

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt "Melisandre read her flames wrong and comes to realize Stannis is Shireen’s Nissa Nissa" for Stannis FicArt Week on tumblr.

R’hllor whispers a final madness into the world when she’s still somewhere between the Wall and Winterfell, wrapped only in the last bits of glamor her faltering strength can conjure. Keeping her and the girl under wraps has been more than her body can handle, and in the end she’s decided it’s the princess, a solid block of invisible heat at her back, whose life matters more.

Shireen has been silent since they fled the Wall; Melisandre’s “good morning”s and “good night”s have gone unremarked upon, no doubt lost in the whirlwind images--the jester with his hands tight around the queen’s neck, Jon Snow’s red eyes and teeth flashing--that dance around them. The wolf speaks for them both, soft yips a few times a day to keep their course straight, the occasional dead raven for her to cook over a nightfire for the princess, altogether much more congenial to Melisandre than the man ever was.

It’s while one such raven is roasting, on the ninth night out of Castle Black, that Melisandre sees everything, in fire pictures as clear as those she’d seen of the jester holding a brand to Shireen’s gray face. A fast sprint and Snow’s ferocious jaws had turned the course in that instance; here, with days between her and Stannis, all she can do is watch as the king grows clearer and clearer, each line on his face standing out in sharp relief against the night. She’s vaguely aware of Shireen, shrouded in invisibility, leaning in next to her, also staring into the flames.

“Father.”

The wolf yips from his place on the other side of the fire, tail stirring the snow. Melisandre fights down the instinct to cover Shireen’s eyes: Stannis’s face is covered in blood, and the naked Lightbringer in his hand does not glow as it bites into his heart, tunnels through his chest, slides clear out the other side as sword and man fall together.

A gust of wind pushes the flame to the right; Stannis’s body disappears, to reappear once more whole and alive. This time a miniature Shireen wields the sword, crying as Stannis lowers himself onto the blade, gushing blood in slow motion that does not stop until Jon’s tail upends a heap of snow onto the blaze.

Melisandre’s power gutters out with the fire. In the blackness she sits with a hand to her ruby choker, numbly aware of the sounds of vomiting from next to her as her glamored youth flees her body, wrinkles racing along her from head to foot, burrowing into her skin at long last. She presses a shriveling finger into the corner of an eye and wipes away the moisture that’s gathered there.

Light brings her back to herself eventually, the spurts of flame that a now fully visible Shireen, trembling, is coaxing from a new pile of wood. Jon Snow has disappeared, but vague keening echoes along with the wind in the hills around them. Melisandre sits and stares at her gaunt hands--coated, she realizes faintly, with bits of red. She touches her choker once more and pulls the disintegrating ruby from the chain.

Shireen takes it from her, replacing it with a length of fabric. It takes several heartbeats for Melisandre to recognize that it is their single blanket and that she, for the first time since consecrating herself to R’hllor, is shivering. She wraps its folds around her as Shireen kisses the remains of the ruby and throws them into the small fire she’s rebuilt, which roars a ferociously hot red before settling into a steady blaze.

“When?” Shireen asks eventually, her voice barely audible above the wind. She’s looking dead into her eyes, and the question bubbles out of Melisandre before she can stop it--it’s been so long that she no longer remembers the answer.

“What color are they, truly?”

The girl smiles. “Blue. Blue, like Father’s.” She cups Melisandre’s head in both her hands and the priestess leans into it, welcoming Shireen’s heat into her body. “When?”

Melisandre shudders softly. “Yesterday. Today. Tomorrow.” _Never._ She bites that one down--wishfulness is becoming for neither woman. “Always.”

“Will we be there if-- _when_ it happens?”

“We will be where R’hllor puts us.”

Shireen shifts; it takes Melisandre a moment to realize that she’s crying, her hands shaking.

“Will _you_ be there?”

 “I am a mortal woman at last.” Melisandre touches Shireen’s ruined cheek and smiles at the contrast of age against grayscale. “I will try.”

“You’re beautiful,” Shireen whispers, and it’s then that tears actually fall, that Melony of Lot Seven is crying. 

“So are you, princess,” she murmurs, smiling as she realizes that the taste on her lips is _salt_. “As was promised.”

Shireen leans her head against Melisandre’s shoulder, her ragged breathing slowing. Soft padding announces the return of Snow, who takes his position on the other side of the fire, red eyes steady but muted.

Melisandre draws the blanket more tightly around herself and begins to plan.


End file.
